The Pale Tower
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the world into a blurred watercolor of slate and mud, and I stood in the center of the dining room, holding a glass of scotch that had gone warm, watching the condensation slide down the side of the crystal in slow, deliberate rivulets that looked uncomfortably like tears, while my wife, Elise, sat at the far end of...
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